PRINTED FOR HENRY COLBURN,
1816.
London: Printed by Schulze and Dean,
13, Poland Street.
Disperato dolor, che il cor mi preme
Gía pur pensando, pria che ne favelle.
CHAPTER I.
In the morning Calantha beheld crowds of discontented catholics who thronged the outer courts waiting to see her father. Petitions for redress were thrown in at the windows; and whilst they were at breakfast, Sir Everard entering, without even waiting to see who was present, asked eagerly if the Duke was at home: he, at the same moment gave a huge paper closely written, into the hands of one of the servants, desiring it to be instantly delivered to the Duke; “and tell him, sir,” vociferated the doctor, “it is my case written out clear, as he commanded—the one I had the honour to present to him t’other day, when he had not leisure to look upon it:” then turning round, and seeing Calantha, “By my soul,” he exclaimed, “if here ain’t my own dear Lady Calantha; and God be praised Madam, you are come amongst us; for the devil and all is broke loose since you’ve been away. Let’s look at you: well, and you are as tall and handsome as ever; but I—Oh! Lady Calantha Delaval, begging your pardon, what a miserable wretch am I become. Lord help me, and deliver me. Lord help us all, in unmerited affliction.”